


Five Times Clint Got Coulson Captain America For His Birthday And One Time He Actually Did

by livingtheobsessedlife



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 14:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12706659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingtheobsessedlife/pseuds/livingtheobsessedlife
Summary: “So…you like it?”“Let me make this clear,” Phil says, leaning forward against his desk, his voice serious but his smile betraying everything, “This is literally the best gift I have ever gotten.”His words light Clint up in the way that only Phil could cause, an odd combination of pride and something scarily close to…ehem, affection?Clint grinned, “Happy birthday, sir,”ORClint and Coulson's relationship has a lot of ups and downs and in betweens, but one constant is Captain America on Coulson's birthday, courtesy of Clint, of course





	Five Times Clint Got Coulson Captain America For His Birthday And One Time He Actually Did

“I knew you liked those Captain America card things, and I found this at a little store on my last mission, so I figured I’d give it to you for your birthday,” Clint rubbed his neck as he stared at the small trading card and rather pointedly not at Coulson, “Do you like it?”

Clint braced himself for that awkward gift-giving-dance, (“ _Of course I like it, very thoughtful, thank you,_ ” before the gift being unceremoniously tossed into a trash can as soon as he left.)

But, when Clint looked up at his handler, Phil was gaping at the gift, his eyes darting from Clint to the card, back to Clint, then back to the card.

“ _Clint_.” Coulson starts breathlessly, glowing excitedly, “This is a priceless, near-mint condition version of the very last card I needed to complete my set.”

“So… _you like it_?” 

“Let me make this clear,” Phil says, leaning forward against his desk, his voice serious but his smile betraying everything, “This is literally the best gift I have ever gotten.”

His words light Clint up in the way that only Phil could cause, an odd combination of pride and something scarily close to… _ehem, affection?_

Clint grinned, “Happy birthday, sir,”

 

/////////////////////

 

There were not many ways to make being trapped in a safe house somewhere in Siberia for a whole week (and missing your birthday because of it) while nursing a gunshot wound to the calf on top of it all much better. Coulson did find, however, after years of trial and error, that Clint could be one of those ways.

His birthday comes and Coulson is content to remain cooped up in bed all day and not think about how old he is getting and just focus on resting his leg and not the quiet way Clint shuffles around the house, _nope_. 

The small amount of sunlight that makes it through the raggedy windows is short and not long lived (because _hello, Siberia_ ), and it does nothing to lift Coulson’s mood. But the way Clint pokes his head into the bedroom that Coulson had taken over every hour to check and see if he’s still resting- and not making some dumb attempt to exert himself- certainly sets a warm feeling in Phil’s gut.

The entire day goes by incredibly slow, as if his own despondency is being purposely prolonged by some God above, laughing at him, calling him old. It's nearing midnight, the day so blessfully almost gone, when Clint appears in the doorway with a poorly wrapped box in his hand.

“Sir?” Clint asks, “How are you feeling?”

Coulson grunts as he shifts onto his elbows, “Good enough, why?”

Clint clears his throat and Coulson has to force himself not to watch the way Clint’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat (no, he was not thinking about kissing lines down that neck of Barton’s because that would be _so unprofessional_ but if he maybe possibly was, he will deny it to his _death_ ). 

“I -um- I remembered that it’s your birthday, and I had been hoping to be able to get out and buy you something, but we’ve been holed up in here all day, so I made you something instead.”

Coulson cocks an eyebrow curiously, inviting Clint closer. The younger agent hands over the present, a rectangular box wrapped in brown paper.

Coulson pulls at the paper to reveal a… _homemade board game_?

“What is this?” Coulson breathes out reverently, carefully turning the box over so that he could read where Clint had meticulously scratched out the instructions to the game in his odd shorthand.

The box is decorated in reds, whites, and blues- kinda like the Fourth of July threw up, but it’s more than okay, it’s _amazing_. There’s a slightly off-center illustration of a back-to-back, Charlie's- Angels-style silhouette of Captain America and a faceless SHIELD agent (that is obviously supposed to be Coulson) on the front of the box and Coulson finds himself smiling. 

“It’s a Captain America board game. It’s not fantastic, I know,” Clint says, even as Coulson, completely beaming, opens the box to stare, wide eyed, at the elaborate board and its pieces (the pieces are a shield, and a tie, and something that he’s pretty sure is an arrow, and there’s so many other little details, it’s absolutely amazing), “But I only had so much stuff to use, and I couldn’t exactly get out of here so-”

“Shut up, Barton,” Coulson says, and then he’s kissing Clint, still absolutely fucking beaming (and yes, maybe just an eensy-weensy bit high on painkillers and a tad reckless from cooped up in bed alone all day, but whatever) and the pain in his leg doesn’t even matter as he leans and leans and pulls because _just wow_. Coulson has his fingers wrapped so hard around Clint’s shirt that the thin fabric is no doubt wrinkling under his grasp, but Phil doesn’t even care. 

For a second, Clint is absolutely shocked, terrifyingly frozen, before he completely melts into the kiss. 

When they finally pull away, chests heaving, Clint smirks, “I’m glad you like it, sir.” He takes a careful seat next to Coulson, watching not to hurt his leg, and begins pawing at the box, setting up the game, never _not smiling_ , “Let’s play.”

They play for hours and too many times does Clint’s fingers brush against Phil’s, or his shoulder, or his thigh, or his elbow, and it makes Coulson absolutely _buzz_ and it might be driving him crazy because this man is a sniper and a spy and this touching is unnecessary and utterly _intentional_. 

After too many hours, Coulson is left in a funny state of happiness and drowsiness, an onslaught of fatigue brought on by too many rounds of game play and undeniable euphoria from simply being beside Clint. He falls asleep with a Captain America game piece in his hand and a Howling Commando card balancing on top of his knee.

Before he leaves, Clint leans down and presses a warm kiss to Phil’s forehead, smiling even in the darkness.

“Happy birthday, sir.” He says to the cold Siberia outside.

////////////////////

 

On his 40-something-th birthday, Coulson wakes up drooling on top of a small stack of files and paperwork. He groans, aching and sore, and apparently much too old for the whole “all nighter” thing anymore. 

It takes him a minute to realize it (not good, considering he is a freaking spy, he really is getting old), but there, staring back at him, is Captain America. Not the real one of course, because that would mean he was still alive, which was impossible, _obviously_.

No, this is a shockingly realistic, life-size cardboard cutout of the good captain himself. Stuck somewhere on the Captain’s chest is a purple post-it note with the smiley message, “ _Happy birthday, Phillip J. Coulson!_ ” sprawled across it in delightfully familiar handwriting. Coulson knows instantly who it’s from. He smiles, even to himself. 

Over the course of the rest of the day, Coulson finds more Captain America cutouts, each an artistically differentiating pose, but all with the same post it note. 

One is jammed in the bathroom nearest his office, one is on the shooting range (Maria nearly shoots it as she grimaces and hollers at Phil “ _Just because it’s your birthday, doesn’t mean I won't shoot you,_ ” but Phil knows she means it with affection...probably), he finds one at his usual table in the cafeteria, one is waiting for him by his favorite coffee stand, there’s one in the conference room, and one in the middle of the main lobby for all to see. It’s really, really excessive (though the one in Fury’s office was admittedly pretty damn funny) and it’s also pretty damn thoughtful of Clint, a funny gift that Coulson appreciates the hell out of. 

By the time the end of the day comes around, Coulson realizes that not once had he ran into or found or even _saw_ Clint. He frowned, but decided to make his way home anyway. He’d have to call Clint personally to thank him for the gifts. 

Phil sets out for his home that night with too many Captain America cutouts shoved into the backseat of his car to be healthy and he laughs at the thought.

When Phil gets home, roughly eight life-size Captain Americas shoved beneath his arm as he battles with his keys and the doorknob, he finds another Captain America cutout waiting for him in his kitchen, only this one has no note and is accompanied by Clint himself. 

Coulson smiles. He doesn’t even have to ask how Clint got in because _this is Clint Barton, of course he just broke in_ , but it’s also incredibly, almost scarily okay because _this is Clint Barton, of course everything is okay._

“What’re you cooking?” Phil asks, smiling as he walks around the Captain America in his kitchen so he can press a kiss to his boyfriend’s cheek.

“You weren’t supposed to be home for another half hour!” Clint stabs at some vegetables in the pan, not even answering the question- _it’s a surprise_.

“Sorry that I ruined your plans then.”

Clint smiles magnificently as he turns the stove off and moves to the sink, “You are perfectly fine, birthday boy.” He glances in the direction of the front door to see the stack of Captain America leaning against the wall, “Did you like your present?”

Phil can't help but laugh as he pours the wine, “You could say that.”

They sit down together a little while later and of course dinner is divine. Before they started dating, Coulson never would have thought Clint was the cooking type, but apparently bearded women named Marge in circuses were amazing cooks and had soft spots for lost, blue-eyed boys that had nobody to lean on except for a brother that was destined to be a future con. Thus, Slightly Slutty, Good-At-Cooking Clint Barton was the man before him today.

Clint had made Phil’s favorite for his birthday: a special four cheese mac and cheese alongside Clint’s special recipe of stuffed roasted peppers. It’s delicious and amazing and Clint even had the forethought to light a couple candles. The entire night is laughter and handholding and Phil cannot think of a time when he had a better birthday. 

After the dishes are cleared, the two of them settle on the couch, fingers interlaced tightly, blanket laid over their legs, and hearts in their eyes. There’s something playing on tv (probably some kind of trashy reality tv, as per usual), but neither of them care very much to follow along. 

Clint’s lips linger at the corner of Phil’s mouth, tender and meaningful. Phil gets this tight, wonderful feeling in his chest, like he could do this forever, and before he can process the feeling floating up from the bottom of his stomach he breathes out, “Move in with me?”

Clint doesn’t even hesitate, just smiles, “Anything for you, Suits. Already got the toothbrush.” 

And it’s just a nickname, Suits is, it’s cheesy and not even clever, but Phil is floating and they’re kissing again, and okay, maybe he had a little too much wine, but it’s his birthday and Phil swears he hasn’t been this happy since he was nothing more than a kid who found a home and a hero in Captain America comic books.

Somewhere in the back of his head, a voice tells Phil that he’s doing this wrong, out of order. He and Clint haven’t even been going out that long. But they’ve been friends for years, hopelessly pining after one another for the emotional equivalent of tortured centuries, and Phil was so far gone for Clint that it didn't even matter anymore. 

“ _I love you_ ,” Phil admits in the heat of the moment, surprising even himself. And _there_ it is, that’s what he was missing in the pecking order of romance. 

Clint hesitates because trust is hard for him after the whole father, then brother, then fuckin’ ringmaster betrayal things, all in quick succession and everything else along the way and all long before Coulson was there to comfort him and tell him that he was _special_. 

Clint doesn't repeat those three words back immediately, instead he presses a long, slow kiss to Phil’s lips, drawing him in, sucking him dry, trying to convey all the passion and love he feels in one fell swoop. And luckily, Phil _gets_ it. 

The Captain America cutouts are forced to watch in all their star-spangled and cardboard glory as Clint and Phil stumble together and bump against walls, stopping to trail kisses along necks and jaws and suck on lips. 

They make it into Phil’s bedroom and that’s when Clint tells Phil he loves him. He says it between bites and gasps, while he worships this man that saved him. 

“Happy birthday, my love.” Clint says much later, his leg wrapped affectionately over Phil’s thigh as they fall down together, tracing a lazy finger against his boyfriend’s shoulder blade and wrapping himself around Phil like some kind of overly-affectionate monkey.

“Love you, too.” Phil whispers one last time, falling asleep in Clint’s arms, carding his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair and blissfully imagining doing this every single night. 

(It’s a good thing, actually, that they decide to move in together, because Clint had become quite attached to those cutouts and had been considering a custody battle over them- screw birthdays, these are freakin’ lifesize Captain America cutouts. _Problem solved._ )

//////////////

 

It was no surprise to anybody that Clint did _not_ like the idea of being anywhere but home for Phil’s birthday.

Clint had always been there, since even before they were live-in boyfriends, and now he was going to be on the opposite side of the planet (well, Moscow, actually, so a little less than the opposite side, but the point still stands) on a mission that really Fury could send just about anybody. It didn’t have to be somebody whose boyfriend’s birthday was in less than a week (and who still hadn’t found the perfect present), but Clint didn't exactly have a choice. 

Six days out from Phil’s birthday, Clint trudges into his office, frowning despondently and collapsing onto the couch that Phil had bought specifically so that Clint could have a place to bicker in comfort.

“What if I just didn't go?”

“Then you’d have to face Fury.” Phil answers without even looking up from his paperwork.

Clint’s head rolls so that he can look at Phil properly and he quirks an eyebrow, pouting melodramatically, “Yeah, no, that’s not going to happen.”

“Then, you have to go.”

Clint groaned, petulance inflating his voice, “But now I’m going to miss your birthday.”

Phil finally put down his pen, looking over at his boyfriend, “It’s fine, babe. We can just celebrate when you get back.”

“Bu-”

“ _It’s fine_.” Phil reassured him softly, getting up from behind his desk and moving to press a firm kiss to Clint’s lips (yes, it devolved and devolved, and no, it was not appropriate for work, but they were fairly beyond that).

“Well, happy early birthday, Phil.” Clint frowned much later as he snuck out of his boyfriend’s office so he could be launched into the Phil-less, lonely life lived in an abandoned Cold-War era nest perched somewhere in the middle of Moscow. 

Phil wakes up the next morning and he paws at the chill of the sheets beside him, scaring himself for a moment before realizing that absence was _supposed_ to be there. He gets dressed and does what he can to _not_ think about Clint (the fact that Phil is forced to use Clint’s shampoo because he ran out of his own does not bode well for him).

Halfway through the day (when it would be approximately 7 o’ clock in Moscow), Phil gets an anonymous text from a blocked number that simply says, “5.”

Phil can’t help but laugh goofily at his phone in the middle of the cafeteria over his green jello and greasy burger while Maria and Natasha and Sitwell send him weird looks because even from across the world, Phil’s boyfriend is dedicatedly counting down to his birthday.

The countdown continues mercilessly.

“4.”

“3.”

“2.”

“1 :)”

Then on the actual day- absolutely nothing. Phil watches, waits for something extravagant (because Clint Barton can be a thoughtful sweetheart from the other side of the world no matter what those doubters think).

When Phil gets home, it’s disappointingly empty. He expected something big, something that could have possibly topped cardboard cutouts and I-love-you’s and homemade board games that mean everything (one of said cardboard cutouts, in fact, stares mockingly at Phil from across the living room as he throws his coat over the back of the couch).

Phil tracks through the house, shoulders sagging with the nagging and unforgiving reminder that _haha you’re old, Mr. Coulson._

That is, until he finds the box in the kitchen. 

It’s on the counter, carefully placed next to an elegant bottle of red wine (Phil’s favorite, actually). 

Phil pokes at the gift. There is no card, but Phil doesn't need one to know that it is from Clint. Phil smiles to himself. 

This present, unlike previous ones, is surprisingly well wrapped, and Phil is pretty sure that Clint has been _practicing wrapping_. It had almost undoubtedly sent overnight to him through the Moscow Mail. 

Unwrapping the birthday present, Phil finds a Captain America action figure, probably from the 70’s or 80’s. It’s not incredibly rare or anything, but Phil’s breath is pleasantly sucked out of him in a gasp and his smile expands. This was something he had wanted when he was a kid, a nostalgia-rendering memory that he had shared with Clint one late night over alcohol and soup and cuddles and new-relationship jitters. 

_Clint had remembered. He’d listened._

Phil will never not stop being touched at that prospect. He’s turning the action figure back and forth, examining the details on the Captain’s uniform, the impressive way that the reds and whites and blues never quite faded, when he hears the door rattle.

Instinctively, Phil drops the figure and readies his gun. He tiptoes toward the front door, steady footsteps on floorboards that refuse to creak under his expert posture. The door rattles again with Phil just around the corner. It opens and Phil looks at the face of his attacker, before completely _melting_.

“Clint?” He smiles, stepping out of the shadows and easily abandoning his gun on the nearest surface.

Clint grins that dastardly grin of his, “ _Surprise_.” And Phil can’t help but wrap his arms around Clint’s neck, pull him in, nuzzle his nose to his neck.

“I thought you were still in Moscow?” He breathes, hot breath spreading against Clint’s jaw.

“Got it done quick. I’m good at my job, and really didn't want to miss this. Sorry I’m late.”

Phil just kissed him.

“Happy birthday, Phil.”

//////////////////

After nearly six and a half years of partnership and companionship and love and everything in between, Phil was pretty sure he had seen every side of Clint. He had seen him goofy and clicking his heels together like a freakish purple leprechaun, and he had seen Clint drowsy and grumpy and bed-ridden with a snotty and awful case of the flu. 

Except this? This was a new Clint.

A candle flickers between them, a scant attempt at high class romance. Across the table, Clint twitches. He never _was_ good at fancy restaurants, but he had insisted on taking Phil out for his birthday this year, a special surprise. 

“Baby,” Phil says soothingly, running a thumb over the back of Clint’s hand, “Relax.” 

Clint forces a smile and his eyes dart around the room anyway, “I know, I know.” 

Dinner comes and goes (and Phil proudly mentally notes that whatever Clint would have made if they hadn't gone out would have been just as good as what they were served, if not better), but Clint never really relaxes. His knee jumps up and down, hopping with an odd case of nerves. 

Dessert comes, a delectable chocolate tiramisu, and Phil smiles at the waitress then frowns minutely at Clint, “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” Clint insists, attempting a shrug. Phil doesn't believe him. 

After dessert, they get champagne, and Clint is worse than ever. Phil tries again. 

“It’s my birthday, why don’t you calm down? For me?” 

Clint forces a dry chuckle, “Of course, babe.” And he sucks down a particularly long pull from his champagne flute. 

“Phil?” Clint pipes up a few moments later, “There’s something I need to say.” 

Phil takes in the tenseness of Clint’s shoulders, registers the henceforth lack of a birthday present, and thinks of the immediate worst, lighting up with intermediate dread. He swallows around a sudden lump in his throat, “What is it, Clint?” 

“I- um- I wanted to- _crap_ , this is hard. You know what, I want to do this right. Hold on.” And just like that, Clint deftly slides out of his seat so that a single knee is on the ground, pointed in Phil’s direction like a compass anchored to the stars. 

Phil gasps. This wasn't a breakup or anything of terrifying proportion, oh no, this was so, so much better. 

“Phil,” Clint barely manages to continue, “You’ve been there for me year after year, no matter how much I screw up. You loved me when I felt like nobody else ever would. And now, I want to just prove to you that I can love you like that for the rest of our lives.” 

Phil can't breathe. The tears forming in his eyes were blurring everything he saw into a salty vignette, but Phil wanted to see Clint, wanted to look into his eyes when he revealed the gold band, and he blinked like a mad man, smiling manically. 

“Phil,” Clint asks, practically choking, “Will you marry me?” 

“Of course, you dumby. Of course I will.” Phil crashes his lips against Clint's, eternally happy, trapped in blissful euphoria. 

The crowd around them erupts into applause as they kiss and Phil registers the new weight on his finger, ready for more. He was engaged. 

Clint lets out a choked laugh, “Happy birthday, Phil.” 

Phil only chuckles, hand tightening around Clint’s. 

They settle down together, brushing with contact from shoulders to toes, and Phil feels like he could sob for days, but he laughs instead, “I was surprised you didn't get me something Captain America.” 

Clint grins, “Oh wait, I did.” 

He fishes an envelope out of his suit jacket, and Phil easily rips it open. A Captain America card stares up at him, decaled with what is very possibly the kitschiest graphic Phil has ever seen, and Phil snorts out a laugh, wet tears finally falling from his eyes. 

“I figured if I lost my nerve or you said no or something, I’d give you the card and hope you said yes anyway.” 

Phil laughs, smiled infinitely, and presses his lips to Clint’s once again, “I love you, Clint. So goddamn much.” 

“Love you, too, ya’ old geezer.” 

Phil swats at Clint’s shoulder, not hard enough to hurt. It was his birthday, after all, Phil didn't want to break his fiancé. 

////////////// 

It’s a widely known fact that Clint Barton is the world’s greatest marksman, written proudly in his resume in big, red letters, and he makes it known any chance he can. But Clint Barton is also quite possibly the world’s _biggest gossip_. 

He always finds out SHIELD’s best kept secrets before anyone else. He doesn’t even have that high of a security clearance (not the highest, at least, like Coulson), but Clint has his ways. It’s a gift, really. 

Gossip is the exact reason he is racing down the labyrinth of HQ, bowling over junior agents left and right (“ _18 points_ ”, Clint thinks, as he knocks over a particularly large agent, papers flying everywhere in the odd semblance of a man-made tornado). 

When he gets to Phil’s door, his final destination, he’s panting just a little bit from exertion, but he’s grinning like a loon, too. He doesn't knock, just enters (because Clint Barton does not _knock_ , excuse me). 

“Sir,” He says from the doorway, stepping into the office with well-established conviction, pausing for sheer dramatic effect, and grinning, “I have the greatest early birthday present ever.” 

Coulson cocks an eyebrow, curious. Clint always liked presents and topping last year’s gift and making Phil happy, so he isn’t all that surprised. But Clint’s newfound urgency is certainly an interesting development. 

“And what would that be?” 

Clint grins, “Come with me.” 

Just like that, Clint sweeps out of his office. Phil follows- of course he does. The ring on his finger is practically the symbolic embodiment of the fact that Phil will _always_ follow Clint, the matching one on Clint's finger being the symbolic embodiment that he'd always let Phil, the push to his pull. 

They move in silence, quick and efficient through the halls of SHIELD. Phil doesn’t have to bowl over agents with his speed or strength, they skid away in his presence anyway, like squirrelly roaches from a pair of stomping boots, terrified that the legendary Phil Coulson has left his lair. Plus, the fact that he’s standing determinedly beside Clint, the division’s and the world’s best marksman, certainly helped, too. Clint had openly voiced on several occasions how hot he found it that Phil scared the agents so much, but that wasn't the point at the moment. 

They get to a sealed door of the highest level security. Clint can’t get in, but Phil doesn't question it (SHIELD’s air vents were always particularly weak) as he passes them in. 

The two agents follow down a few thin hallways lined with lead and metal and dim, LED lights. Clint never gets rid of that shit-eating grin, eternally proud of his early birthday present. 

“This is it,” Clint breathes out as they finally get to a door, lined heavily with bolts the size of his palm, “We need your clearance one last time.” 

Phil glances at Clint, then to the small fob beside the door where he swipes his card. The door unlocks with an unerring click, the small sound undulating through the hallway like the sound of a bat’s wings in a massive cave. Phil looks to Clint again.

“Go on,” Clint encourages, pressing a hand onto Phil’s back and pushing lightly. 

Inside the room, there’s a flurry of SHIELD scientists. It’s not surprising, they’re everywhere on a good day and _everywhere_ on a bad day (Clint often jokes that he thinks Fury may be inserting intelligence rays into people then recruiting them, but he can’t prove anything. Phil always just answers with a tight-lipped smile that says absolutely nothing, goddammit). 

The surprising thing _is_ , however, the large, half-melted chunk of ice in the middle of the room. Scientists are waving ray-detectors and little gadgets that Clint has no idea of their purpose, and some are waving hair dryers against the ice as it pools at the floor like ripped silk. 

From the waist up, there’s a man sticking out of the ice. Even unconscious, Phil would recognize him anywhere. His childhood hero. His Halloween costume for eight years straight. Red, white, and blue all over. _Captain America._

“Clint,” Phil gasps, stepping as close as the busying scientists could physically allow, “Is this… are you… is- _serious_?” 

Clint grins again, because _haha, he got Phil just about speechless, yay_ , “Serious as a heart attack, baby.” 

Phil thinks he might just _love_ his job (he has more than enough pull with Fury to make himself head of the Captain America Project and he’s already giddy at the prospect). But, Phil thinks- no, _knows_ \- that he loves his husband even more. Clint got him here, always got him where he wanted and needed and didn't even know. 

“Clint?” 

“Yeah?” 

“You were right,” Phil says, turning and smiling even despite the junior agents and SHIELD scientists and all the other inferiors around him (the rumors that The Unflappable Phil Coulson finally smiled would inevitably come out of this, and after all of his fabricating of a stone-cold reputation, Coulson feels like he should care except for the fact that he really, really _doesn't_ ), “This is definitely the greatest early birthday present I’ve ever gotten.” 

Phil smiles hugely, like the crack of a mighty earthquake. Phil loves Clint- _his beloved husband_ \- for all he knows and all he has opened up to him, for knowing his Captain America obsession could only be sedated by one sole force. 

In front of everybody, Phil kisses Clint. Because he loves him, and because he _can_.

And because Captain America is _back_.


End file.
